DITCHED

by RC Boldt

  The flashing lights are giving me a headache. The hard hits I received to the back of my head probably didn’t help much either. Thank God these people took me away from that man. He stunk so bad I nearly puked.

  The shaking won’t stop, and the paramedic told me it’s probably shock.

  “You’re safe now, Ivy.” The woman in the vest that says FBI on it has already told me this a few times now. But I don’t believe her.

  I don’t know that I’ll ever feel safe again.

  It’s hard to say how much time passes, but eventually, their voices become muffled. The doors to the ambulance slam closed, and the vehicle begins to move. We hit a pothole in the road, and it jars me, causing me to clutch my ribs.

  “Possible concussion and fractured ribs…”

  “…no remaining family…”

  I stare out the back window of the ambulance and concentrate on doing what I’ve done for the past year. What I do best.

  I stay quiet and focus on surviving.

  8

  Becket

  JUNE

  JACKSONVILLE, FLORIDA

  “You’re still on board with looking over my plans for the pergola at the end of the week, right?”

  Dax turns around, his lower half covered by a towel and his head still stuck inside the cotton shirt he’s pulling on. We earned our showers after today’s hardcore speed drills.

  “Uhhh…”

  I draw to an immediate stop, my own shirt in hand, the collar hanging from my fingers, and I stare at my friend. “I asked you about this days ago.” And he’d agreed to look over things and offer another perspective.

  Come to think of it, Dax has never balked at helping me with my little projects around my place before, so this can only mean one thing.

  Woman troubles.

  Tugging on my short-sleeve polo—black because it’s supposed to be slimming and paparazzi always manage to snap at least one photo of me looking like I need to drop weight—I level a stare at him.

  “What’s the deal?”

  Once he’s pulled on his shirt, a loud exhale spills from his lips before he glances around the locker room. Lucky for him, it’s relatively empty since it’s still off-season and we’re here on our own.

  Dax straddles the small bench and stares down at the floor. “I can’t do it Friday since I have an appointment.”

  His mumbled words don’t immediately register. An appointment? That could mean anything.

  Worried, I frown. “With a…doctor?”

  His head snaps up. “No.”

  Now, I’m really confused. “Then what?”

  He glances around again before scrubbing a hand down his face before his gaze locks with mine. “I’m meeting with a specialist to help me ditch Kayla.”

  I stare at him. And I stare some more. Because I know I passed my last hearing test with flying colors. We’re talking I could probably detect a gnat flapping its wings. Which means my buddy, here, is legit serious.

  He’s meeting with a “specialist.”

  To help him ditch a woman.

  It starts off subtle. First, the upward tugging of the corners of my mouth before my lips slowly spread wider and wider. And once that happens, it’s all over. It’s a done deal.

  My laughter cannot be restrained.

  I clutch my sides, the sore muscles from the added calisthenics I’ve been doing signaling their lack of appreciation for my boisterous laughter.

  Oh, and neither is my friend, here.

  My bad.

  He rolls his eyes, his features illustrating his exasperation. “Yuck it up, clown.”

  Once my laughter finally subsides, and I manage to catch my breath, I straddle the bench and wave my fingers for him to disclose everything.

  “Dish, dude. Dish.” I bend to pull on my khakis and wince at the slight protesting from my abs. Maybe adding side planks to my ab workout wasn’t such a good idea.

  Dax levels a serious look on me. “I can’t shake Kayla. And Coach actually gave me the info on this—”

  I hold up my hand to stop him. “Wait a minute.” I scrunch my face in disbelief. “You went to Coach about this?”

  My friend shrugs. “I had no choice.”

  Shit. He’s serious. “Go on.” I rest my elbows on my knees, listening intently.

  “Well”—he waves a hand in gesture—“I told Coach I was between a rock and a hard place, didn’t want things to get messy, and he said he knew someone who could help.” He stands up and reaches for his bag, withdrawing his wallet. He flips it open and hands me a business card.

  I accept the card, and my curiosity increases tenfold when I catch sight of the name in bold blue text.

  DITCHED

  Confidential relationship assistance

  *We respectfully maintain the right to refuse services without explanation.

  Beneath that is contact information—an email address and telephone number.

  I flip the card over to the back, only to find it blank. Huh. They definitely keep it simple.

  My eyes rise to meet Dax’s. “So you think this is the fix?”

  I can’t disguise the hint of doubt that edges into my voice. I’m only being honest. And me and Dax? That’s the way we’ve been from the start. Ever since being paired as roommates our final two years at the University of Florida, we vowed always to be honest with one another. Whether it be about women, game plays, or business decisions, we always give each other the no-BS response.

  He offers another shrug. “Honestly, I have no other choice.” He replaces the business card in his wallet, and with a sigh, he stares sightlessly down at the locker room floor. “I just know she has to go.”

  There’s a beat of silence before his gaze rises to lock with mine. “She definitely wants more from me.” There’s a brief pause. “But she’s not a fan of kids.”

  Immediately, I sit up straight. Because if there’s one thing Dax is, it’s a family guy. The way he dotes on his niece, Violet, is a testament to that.

  No doubt about it, Kayla’s got to go.

  I frown. “So why do you think you need the help?”

  Dax averts his gaze, and I immediately let out a disappointed sigh at the unspoken answer. “Dude. You knew better.”

  His features are etched with self-recrimination. “I know. I was just…” He lowers his voice to finish with, “I was lonely, man.”

  I drag a hand through my hair because as much as I could give him shit for this—for sleeping with Kayla even when he knew better—I get it. I’ve been in his shoes before.

  It didn’t take me long to figure out that loneliness subsides briefly, but when it comes down to it, it’s just sex.

  Shit. Blue’s definitely rubbing off on me. I sound like a damn pansy.

  He scrubs a hand down his face wearily. “When I tried to talk to Kayla, it…didn’t exactly go well.”

  Not surprising.

  I reach out and slap him playfully on the arm. “Hey. Chin up, man. You’ve got this, especially now that you’ve got help.”

  His smile has a tinge of nervousness to it. “Yeah.” Suddenly, his expression sobers, and he peers at me thoughtfully. “What are you doing on Friday?”

  Oh, hell.

  This time, his smile is more open, genuine, and I huff out a laugh because I know my pergola plans just got sidelined.

  Shoving up off the bench, I grab my stuff, slam my locker closed, and reach over to cup his cheek. “You’re lucky I love your beautiful cocoa skin.” I give him shit because that’s how we roll.

  He shoves my hand away with a laugh and grins. “Damn straight you do, Jones.”

  Ah, the things we do for our friends.

  “So tell me about this new lady friend of yours.”

  I glance over at Dax. He has one hand on the steering wheel, his other arm resting on the door. We’re navigating the streets of Jacksonville as we head to his meeting with the owner of Ditched.

  “Not much to tell, really. We’ve talked a few times, exchan
ged a text here and there.”

  He draws to a stop behind the other cars at the traffic light and turns to me. The way he stares, even beneath the dark sunglasses, makes me uneasy.

  That feeling is exacerbated when his lips twitch once, twice, and then it happens.

  A wide-ass grin stretches from ear to ear. “Becket’s got a crush,” he singsongs, jabbing his index finger in my direction. “I can hear it in your voice.”

  My glare isn’t visible from behind my sunglasses. “Shut it.”

  In response, Dax throws his head back and lets a hearty laugh loose. Luckily, the light turns green, and he returns his attention to the road.

  “Just callin’ it like it is.” Eyes on the road, he’s still grinning. “So are you going to meet up or what?”

  I stare out my passenger side window. “I don’t know.” I hesitate. “It’s nice right now, just talking like normal people. No mention of sponsors or ads or my games.”

  “Basically, no mention of your work.”

  I release a long breath. “Yep.”

  “How long do you think that’ll last before she figures things out? I mean, you’ve exchanged pics, right?”

  I pinch my lips shut and continue peering out the window at passing traffic.

  “Noooo.” Dax whistles softly. “You don’t even know what this chick looks like?”

  “She doesn’t know what I look like either.”

  “Aw, hell no.” He shakes his head. “There’s no way this’ll end well. What if she’s not into men who look like you?”

  I rear back, gaping at him. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Men who are over six feet tall and, well”—he waves a hand casually in the direction of my face—“a mug like that.”

  “You mean the same mug that’s currently on the cover of Sports Illustrated? That mug?”

  Dax shakes his head with mock sadness. “Sometimes, there’s just no accounting for taste.”

  “Remind me why we’re friends again?”

  My buddy doesn’t miss a beat. “Because you love my beautiful cocoa skin, of course.”

  9

  Becket

  Dax and I head toward the rear of the small, local coffee shop to the room reserved for his meeting with the owner of Ditched. In it are four chairs, two on either side of a narrow, rectangular table.

  I check the time. “Just about five minutes to spare.”

  Dax shifts nervously in his seat. “She said she’d see me at four p.m. sharp.”

  He barely finishes his sentence when we catch the sound of clicking heels approaching.

  Nothing, however, could have prepared me for the sight of the woman entering the small room.

  She strides in confidently, and both my and Dax’s jaws hit the floor. A motorcycle helmet is in one hand, and she’s clad in sleek, black pants, which disappear into heeled boots of the same color. She sets the helmet at the far corner of the table, and when her eyes flit between us, we scramble to our feet.

  He reaches out a hand to her. “Miss Hayes, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Dax Kendrick.”

  She smiles and shakes his hand. “It’s a pleasure.” Her gaze flickers briefly to me as if silently questioning my presence. Luckily, my friend picks up on this.

  “I hope you don’t mind that my friend Becket’s here with me. I was a little nervous about today.” I swear he practically guffaws, and a hint of a blush spreads across his cheeks.

  I can’t say I blame him one damn bit.

  Miss Hayes’s long hair is perfectly straight, hanging down her back in a gorgeous chestnut-colored curtain. Her eyes, though, are what give me pause. The moment they clash with mine, it’s like I’ve been sacked by an out-for-blood lineman. The color is unique; a gorgeous swirl of stormy blue with a golden hue directly around the pupil. I’ve never been a guy to wax poetic over a woman’s eyes, but man, hers could definitely change that.

  It takes a moment for me to realize she’s waiting expectantly with an outstretched hand in my direction. “Oh! Sorry. Becket Jones.” I grasp her hand and shake it briefly. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise.”

  That’s it. No fanfare. No furtive glances from beneath her eyelashes. No gawking. Nothing.

  And hell if I don’t love every ounce of it.

  This woman barely glances at me. Instead, she centers her attention on her client. It’s as though I’ve been dunked in a bucket of ice-cold water rather than treated like a celebrity.

  I’m not being cocky because I like it. I like that she’s not simpering or batting her eyelashes at me. The opportunity to meet people who don’t already have some preconceived notion about me simply from my career or the endorsement ads I’ve done is refreshing.

  She reaches for a clasp just beneath her breasts and releases the bag secured to her back. Sliding the straps from her shoulders, she places it on the table and withdraws a notepad, file, pen, and laptop. Then she unzips the sleek riding jacket to reveal a simple but elegant sleeveless blouse that accentuates her toned arms.

  Once she settles into the chair on the opposite side of the table, Dax and I follow suit. She gets right down to business.

  Her motions are confident, and the movement causes her hair to shift over one shoulder. She slides it back before tucking it behind one ear.

  As she and Dax begin their discussion, I shift in my chair, attempting to stretch my long legs and cross them at the ankles. Might as well get relaxed while they go over the finer details concerning his “situation.”

  I don’t mind because this gives me the opportunity to peruse the woman before me. As bizarre as it is, I feel an odd connection to her. Like there’s a familiarity. Which is crazy since we’ve just met. Maybe it’s because her voice sounds similar to Ivy’s.

  With Ivy edging into my thoughts, I wonder again what she looks like. I wonder what she’d say if I told her about this meeting with Dax.

  I allow my eyes to skim over Miss Hayes, taking in her simple yet businesslike attire. It could easily be classified as business casual.

  They pause so Dax can look something up on his cell phone. As soon as he supplies the information, she withdraws a few forms from the file folder. Sliding the paperwork over to him, she explains the policy for payment and the strict privacy clause that could give HIPAA a run for its money.

  As my friend reads over the form, she turns to her laptop, and her slim fingers fly across the keyboard doing God only knows what.

  “And, Mr. Jones, I’ll also need you to sign these forms when he’s finished, as I wasn’t expecting him to bring anyone else to our meeting today.”

  I’m legitimately getting a slight mental hard-on from this woman and her über-confident all-about-business persona.

  She addresses Dax. “Our ultimate goal is for a respectable exchange and to avoid any heated arguments.”

  Dax nods, continuing to scan the paperwork before him while I’m paying close attention and catch Miss Hayes’s barely audible whisper of, “donnybrook.”

  Oh, hell. My mental hard-on’s about to get real. How does she know donnybrook is the definition of a heated argument?

  I peer over Dax’s shoulder at the paperwork just as Miss Hayes’s cell phone vibrates. Her eyes flicker to the screen before she grabs it, flashes us an apologetic smile, and excuses herself, assuring us she’ll only be a moment.

  The minute she steps out of the small room, my friend’s head snaps to me, and his annoyed glare catches me off guard.

  “Get your shit together,” he grits out under his breath.

  “What the hell?” I can’t help but gape at him in confusion. I’ve been sitting here quietly.

  He lowers his chin with a scowl, and his eyes grow squinty. “You’re doing that thing you do,” he practically growls.

  I rear back. “What thing?”

  Dax rolls his eyes and scoffs. “You were staring at the poor woman.” He points the tip of his pen at me. “Stop being a damn creeper.”

  I lean
in close and quietly hiss, “I can’t help it that she’s attractive!” I pause for a beat. “Plus, there’s just something about her…”

  He jabs an index finger in my direction. “Don’t be another distraction.”

  Shit. I know what he’s referring to.

  I let out an indignant huff and throw a hand up. “Dude! How was I supposed to know your housekeeper was obsessed with me?”

  He just stares. “You went all Becket Jones on her. What did you expect?”

  “Now you’re just talking crazy. I don’t even know what that means.”

  “Really?” Dax arches an eyebrow. Then he shifts in his chair, puffing out his chest. His lips form an over-the-top grin, and he deepens his voice. “Hi there. I’m Becket. Aren’t you just the sweetest thing? I helped my alma mater with their campus expansion, and I did most of the work on my house when it was built. Maybe I could flex for you? Or show you my adorable dog, perhaps? But, oh, you have to be cool with my female best friend.”

  I say nothing. Because, yeah. There’s really nothing I can say.

  My friend’s a douche.

  “I never offered to flex.”

  Dax squints at me. I can’t help the wide smirk that forms in return.

  I pause before emphatically adding, “And my dog is adorable. Daisy’s pretty damn lovable, and we have so many similarities.”

  “You both scratch your crotch?” he deadpans.

  I choose to ignore his negativity. “We both have sleek, dark hair and”—I dip my chin and look at him from beneath my eyelashes—“such expressive eyes.”

  He throws his hands up, looks at the ceiling, and mutters, “Ay, Dios mío.”

  I do my best to appear insulted. “It’s true!” Then, I toss out my hand, exasperated. “And you aren’t even Hispanic.”

  His lips part to continue our verbal sparring, but we’re interrupted by Miss Hayes’s return.

  “I apologize for the interruption, gentlemen.”

  My gaze snaps up to lock with hers as she enters and reclaims her seat, and I feel transfixed. There’s just something about her eyes...